If The Seas Catch Fire(69)

“Holy shit, Dmitry! Did you f*cking look?” Baltazar shoved his fat fingers through his greasy hair. “How am I going to explain—”

Sergei seized Baltazar by the throat and slammed him up against the bulkhead. “Listen to me, motherf*cker.”

Baltazar stared at him, eyes huge.

“If you want me to take out a specific person,” Sergei snarled, “you give me a goddamned name. From where I was standing, Privitera was the highest man on the roster besides Felice himself.” He shoved himself back, using Baltazar’s throat as leverage, and let go.

The Greek rubbed his neck.

“You wanted a message sent, and I sent it,” Sergei hissed as he snatched the blanket off the bench. “Why the f*ck didn’t you tell me if you wanted someone specific?”

Baltazar showed his palms. “My orders were to tell you to take out the second man down. No one said who he was.”

“Yeah, you don’t say.” Sergei jerked the zipper down on his wetsuit and stripped to the waist. As he wrapped the blanket around his shoulders, he growled, “Give me that tank so I don’t get f*cking bent.”

Wordlessly, Baltazar handed it over. Sergei took a seat, put on the mask, and turned the valve. He breathed slowly and deeply through his chattering teeth. The air was cold, which didn’t help him warm up, but between the blanket and the brutal sun, his limbs were beginning to thaw.

He leaned over, pressing his elbow into his knees and his stinging fingers into his temples. Muscles ached. His fingers burned. But his biggest worry was that rapid ascent, and he kept on breathing that cold, cold air, no matter how much it made his lungs burn and his teeth hurt.

Baltazar’s contact would be pissed, and Baltazar himself was pissed, but at least Sergei had the vague order as an alibi. And thank God no one had been specific, or Dom would’ve been a dead man.

Just like the poor Korean guy who was probably still floating out there somewhere, assuming the sharks or the Coast Guard hadn’t found him yet.

Sergei winced.

He played and replayed the whole incident in his mind, over and over again. It wasn’t supposed to happen like that. The Korean’s screams echoed in his ears, drawing bile up his throat. Thank God Dom had killed the poor bastard. Sergei was in this to kill Mafia men, for f*ck’s sake. Not get desperate immigrants killed. It was his fault. He hadn’t been able to kill Dom, so he’d gone for the next best target, and he hadn’t been careful enough about when and where he did it, and one of the immigrants had taken the fall. It was his f*cking fault.

Except it probably would have played out the same if he’d killed Dom. Felice would’ve flipped out, and he’d have blamed one of the men working for him.

It would have happened exactly the same way. The only difference was that Dom would be dead.

Closing his eyes, Sergei tucked his arm against his stomach and gritted his teeth against the wave of nausea. There was no holding it back, though, so he tore off the mask, twisted around, and heaved overboard. God knew if it was the bends, seasickness, or if he was just f*cked up in the head after the way things had gone down on the boat. Or a combination of all three.

That wasn’t how it was supposed to go down. Especially not in horrific fashion. Wherever the unfortunate man had taken the bullet, his screams had been the stuff of nightmares.

Sergei was convinced the other Koreans were only alive—if shaken—because of Dom. Felice had no doubt had every intention of killing all of them. But Dom had stepped in, and then he’d put the wounded man out of his misery and made no apologies for it.

That was a side of Dom that didn’t make sense. Even though he’d known Dom wasn’t like the others, that he wanted out of this life more than anything in the world, it was different to see it. To witness his humanity outside the privacy of a shitty motel room, out where the rubber met the road.

He was Mafia. He was one of them.

But you’ve seen him in private. You’ve heard him say how much he hates what he is. You know what he is and what he isn’t.

Sergei cradled his throbbing head in his freezing hands.

He wanted to believe the Dom he met at night was human. He didn’t want to believe that a Mafioso was. But Dom was a Mafioso. Dom was human. Dom was…

Fuck. I’m losing my f*cking mind.



*



Sergei was still shivering when he made it to shore. Even after he changed into some clothes that had been soaking up the morning’s warmth in his car, he couldn’t get warm. Time to go home and take a shower. A long, hot shower that would take away the cold, the salt, and maybe some of the guilt that—

His phone buzzed in the cup holder. He glared at it for a moment.

Oh Christ. Now what?

Cursing under his breath, he picked it up, and didn’t expect to see a text from Dom.

Need to see you tonight. Please.

Sergei swallowed. Fresh guilt clawed at him from the inside. He’d been moments away from putting a bullet into Dom. Now he was going to have sex with him like nothing happened?

Yes. Because nothing did happen. Because for reasons Sergei couldn’t quite parse, he hadn’t put a bullet in Dom, and he needed to have sex with him. Just to make sure he was alive. Or to appease his conscience somehow. Or, f*ck, he didn’t know, but with fingers that were still partially numb, he wrote back:

I’m off tonight. Sooner the better.